


The Purpose of Flowers

by Volts



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: (Book and Netflix Show), Ableism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Hopeful Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Forced Sterilization, Canonical Suicide Attempt, Character Study, Depression, F/M, Families of Choice, Found Family, Infertility, Introspection, Menstruation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, POV Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Past Child Abuse, Pig mention, Spoilers for Blood of Elves, Spoilers for Time of Contempt, Sterilization, Suicide Attempt, Very little dialogue, just the word no actual pigs here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28178601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volts/pseuds/Volts
Summary: Yennefer gets up to relieve herself and begin the monotony of her day when she notices it.The blood on the inside of her nightdress.For all of a minute she’s 11 years old, showing her mother her stained petticoat.What now?*What if Yennefer got what she wanted?*(Because it was never about her womb, not really.)
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Past Istredd/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 24
Kudos: 67
Collections: The Witcher Quick Fic #02





	The Purpose of Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Witcher Quick Fic Challenge.  
> Spoilers for Blood of Elves and Time of Contempt.  
> Content warning: contains the word ‘Pig’ but the actual animal does not appear
> 
> EDIT 25/12/20: this is no longer anon so I can now say, without giving myself away, that I have a LOT of Yen feels!

A Djinn. Dragon scales.

Yennefer could admit that they had failed. Too pedestrian. So, she decided to look further afield. In the banned book section of Oxenfurt university she found it. An ancient book, one claiming to be written by the goddess Melitele herself. She didn’t believe that it had been for the world, but it held possibilities.

“ _Why do **you** want a baby?”_ Tissaia had asked her, all those years ago before she had tried to control a djinn and failed.

Yennefer didn’t know. To love and be loved in return? To succeed in 1 person where she’d failed the whole of Aedirn? To replace the long dead ping farmer’s not-daughter and the poor princess of Aedirn, and give a child everything they never had?

No. Not exactly.

Triss hadn’t had her womb removed. Sabrina neither. Nor Kiera, Fringilla, Coral, Tissaia… _they_ had options. Very slim options – chaos did mutate and kill cells, ovaries wilting and dying. But Yennefer had always been such an ugly duckling, the odd one out. Never _enough_.

Not for her parents.

Not for Tissaia.

Not for Aedirn.

Not for – not for herself.

And she was going to _do_ _something_ about it.

*

_In Geralt she found a deeply broken being. He wants for little or claims to. He likes his path, his gwent, his bard. He likes his weaponry, armour, and, for a varying definition of ‘like’, his monsters. The bestiaries he has memorised, the potions, the oils, all attend to his dedication._

_Anything else and he’s ... vulnerable. Only in the whispers of a quiet night does he tell her about the architecture of a temple a golem had inhabited in Velen. Or about a book he’s read on the history of paintings. He surprises people, she knows, when he reveals his knowledge, his understanding of their little human lives. In those moments she thinks, we are too alike._

_She wants to cradle him close and keep in her heart so she can fight his demons for him, but fears - she does not fear she’s apathetic, cocooned from emotions like pain - her heart might break she he rest his head upon her shoulder one more time and look at her sleepily with is fond golden eyes whilst he thinks poetic thoughts about her eyes, her scent, and their future - which he only modestly, tentatively, hopes to be a part of._

_Living together, with their chipped rims and cracked glasswork, it was not unexpected that they occasionally shattered._

_He sees life as a day after day deluge of blood, ichor, and guts._

_She wants enlivening, the boredom of immortality setting in._

_A purpose._

*

Yennefer was not used to cold, to dew-wet legs, to the rattling wind through the trees – not anymore.

She had a sturdy house in Vengerberg, warm furs for the cold days, portals for days when the wind would bite at her fingers and toes. No, her coldness now was internal. A hollow in her chest, lower, where _something_ was missing.

But here on the wilds, on the cliff top, she felt lightness like she hadn’t in so long. A wild, desperate hope.

The waves crashed close by; the wet grass weighed down her trailing dress.

The sun was rising.

Very carefully she arranged the items for the ritual. No black lines painted on the floor this time, no candles lit, no unconscious bard nearby. Just Yennefer and the rising sun. A circle of round chalk rocks taken from the beach and an iron dagger.

She kneels in the circle of chalk stones. She says the words and a hush falls over the cliff. The waves stop. The wind drops.

Nothing.

Then-

A feeling akin to a sneeze ripples from the place her knees touch the grass to the top of her head. She gasps, her shoulders shaking in the aftershocks. Her ears ring, her head spins. Clumsily she takes up the knife -

-the watery sun bathes her in warm spring light-

-and drove the knife into the ground.

The light shatters. Predawn rain spatters gently onto the seaside.

The waves crash.

The wind stirs.

There’s no pain. No gut-wrenching _change._

Fuck.

She screams, loudly, angry, at the purple sky, “Why me? Why me?” and she falls to her knees. She isn’t sure she believes in goddesses but she’s still upset – angry, indignant – that Melitele, goddess of fertility and motherhood has forsaken her.

Numbly, she opens a portal and returns to her sturdy, lonely, house.

*

_It hadn’t been warm in the little house she’d grown up in. The roof leaked every winter. The doors and window shutters rattled in the slightest of breezes. But the anger had been hot, scorching words biting back, vitriol which left her smarting in shame and anger, fighting all who dared._

_Every movement could be the wrong one. A raised eyebrow, a half-smile, at the wrong time. Then the yelling would start. The bruises would flower over thin wrists, painting her brown skin ugly. A red angry face, loud and snarling._

_Aretuza wasn’t like that. It was cold. Tissaia dismissive and disappointed, like Yennefer wasn’t worth expending any effort of feeling upon._

_She hadn’t been happy, back home, but she’d been free. She could have walked away at any moment (and died several days later from exposure). But here, locked in her dingy, dark, windowless room - all high walls and smooth stonework – the fight within her sours. She’s powerless. Even her words mean nothing in this palace of contrasts._

_Tissaia doesn’t care. Yennefer’s a little experiment for her. An animal, her piglet, bought to control as she sees fit._

_No._

_So, Yennefer shatters the glass of that hateful square of a mirror and cuts herself free._

_Except she doesn’t. And the twisting, constricting, hollow opens up in her stomach._  
  


*

In another life, she thought bleakly as she stared into the flickering hearth, Yennefer would have been born, she’d have married a local boy – every time she imagines a different boy from her youth; Karol the baker’s boy who’d smiled at her at solstice once, or perhaps Carlos the apprentice farrier who’d always greet her with a polite ‘Miss Yennefer’– they’d have had 4 children (in her mind all 4 unpained, and whole, and _loving)_ and then she’d have died, buried in the temple grounds as bait for grave hags. The people would say her cursed presence lured it there. And that would have been it for Yennefer, the pig farmer’s not-daughter.

Of course, all the boys of her youth were dead now, buried and still under the earth. And the children were nothing but mist, less real than the rays of the dying sun – bright to see, painful for a moment, but intangible. Gone within minutes.

The fire crackled.

Tomorrow she had errands.

She rose from her chair, it creaks slightly in the otherwise silent house, and doused the flames with a wave of her hand.

Another day.

Another hollow day.

Market came and went. She doled out contraceptives, aphrodisiacs, and advice with a practiced, performative, smile. Her words blunt.

They thanked her, they gave her cured meats she liked and jams she hated, and she basked a little before remembering the blood soaked road that had led to her falling so far. She was smiled at now, everyone smiled at her now – it was a bitter thought. They saw a pretty sorceress, a healer, they didn’t know the sweat she had given to be here.

Yennefer, the pig farmer’s not-daughter would have given, _had_ given, everything to have people smile at her. Had given up her small future, had it ripped away as she was dragged – four fucking marks – to the cold and grand splendour of Aretuza.

She’d wilted. Rotted.

And warmth, the restorative rays of sunlight found in ascendence, had been dangled in front of her, heating her bones – sizzling every nerve as the lightening had struck – a life of smiles and easy acceptance.

With one, teensy, weensy, little catch… Kill the pig farmer’s not-daughter – and all her possibilities. The best thing a flower – such a bright flower, so hopeful, so loving, with _such a smile_ – can do is die, after all.

What was a _smile_ to a full stomach, to a secure life? A career? _Independence?_

Well now she knew.

It was cold. Ornamental. A weapon held aloft by the ruling men of the continent. _They_ have the _shiniest,_ the most _jewelled_ weapon in _their_ armoury. Sharp, deadly. Fine silks and beautiful velvet substituting cut diamond display cases. Confined and shackled. Stifled. Bored. Apathetic.

She wanted more.

She could be more than the pig farmer’s not daughter, worth more than 4 marks.

More than a pretty ornamental dagger for the King of Aedirn. More than a bodyguard for an ungrateful Queen.

(More useless than a shield for a small baby.)

More…

…loved.

So Yennefer had tried the domestic life. Geralt had loved her so much. She couldn’t see why. Why had he chosen to save her life after so scant hours acquaintance?

They’d argued the last they’d seen each other, atop the mountain. About the Djinn, about her suitability for motherhood. His commitment issues, _her_ commitment issues.

And she hadn’t got her dragons scales.

What a waste of a journey that had been. A failure.

*

_Lilac._

_When choosing her scent she’d thought about it long and hard._

_She’d chosen her face. Her body - waking up each morning pain free made her feel as if she was walking on air, the stiffness in rain or after a long day a reminder of what had passed, the phantom echoes brushed aside in echoes of agony._

_She’d chosen her place. She was going to Aedirn._

_She had had clothes fashioned to make her look elegant and professional, they wouldn’t detract from her._

_A simple, tasteful black and white._

_Her scent._

_A perfumery sat in the middle of the street in Vengerberg. She been at her new place a month now._

_Politics. People. Power._

_The perfumery held bottles of scents from across the continent, from Skellige to Zerrikania. She discarded lavender. Rose. Violet. Sandalwood._

_Lilac stood out as being especially captivating. Subtle but standing strong. Anyone could come in here and ask for Lilac, though. It needed an edge, a pair to intrigue._

_Not cherry. She hesitated over apple - sharp and sweet - but dismissed it after a few moments. Blackberry. Lingonberry. Black currant._

_Gooseberry. It was a barely there smell. Hardly a scent at all. A fresh leaf, scent of fruit and plant._

_A cool breeze of a smell._

_Lilac and Gooseberries._

_A mixture no one else would think of. Everyone would recognise it as her._

_Yennefer of Vengerberg, **Court Mage of Aedirn**._

*

Off.

That’s what she’d been feeling the last few days. Odd. Sitting down she feels uncomfortable. Standing, bloated. She’d spent yesterday with a persistent headache. Lying down there’s a tightness in her lower back.

Yennefer awakes in her fur covered bed, canopy closed against the morning light.

She feels strangely damp between her thighs, though her dreams hadn’t been pleasant at all.

She gets up to relieve herself and begin the monotony of her day when she notices _it._

The blood on the inside of her nightdress.

For all of a minute she’s 11 years old, showing her mother her stained petticoat. The utter fear and shame washing over her, for just as second, as she remembers that all her mother had said was ‘You know what this is, don’t you?’ and the anger her mother had shown the next day, when Yennefer had decided to dress as normal rather than acknowledge what was happening.

(But Yennefer isn’t 11 anymore. No longer is she the scared and angry little girl being told she is ‘blooming’ into a woman. As far as young Yennefer had been concerned, she didn’t feel any different to they way she had the day before).

Mostly she feels shock.

A strange, tentative, hopeful, shock.

She dresses appropriately, using sterilized pads she usually gives to villagers who need them.

Right.

What now? ( _She doesn’t feel any different to how she did yesterday…_ )

She goes to market.

At first, she revels in the pain, the twisting balls of iron that have sat above her pelvis and are stabbing at her inner flesh, causing ripples of pain to ebb and flow over her. Her back aches. Her feet and lower legs tingle, feeling somehow inflated?

By mid- afternoon she takes a tincture of the remedy she gives to all her clients with similar symptoms and lives her afternoon in mostly pain free elation.

She thinks idly of Istredd, who had as much chance of giving her a baby as she had of conceiving. Past dalliances flash before her eyes, measuring former lovers against their potential to contribute to her motherhood. She even thinks of Geralt’s bard, Jaskier who fancied her about as much as he was jealous of her and would no doubt have a whole orchestra of bastards dotted all over the continent if he hadn’t invested so much in contraceptive potions.

And she laughs.

She has absolutely _no inclination_ to visit any one of these people. She’s floating on a sea of elation.

She’d _done_ it!

She thinks of Geralt, who hadn’t measured up in that one category but outstripped all others in his touch, his tenderness, his _love_.

And continues smiling, softly, as she remembers how he had smiled at her so gently.

It wasn’t her womb, she’d been missing. An anxiety, an injustice, has been righted. Relief washes over her as irritation crawls up her magically aligned spine.

She isn’t happy about it. She’d been wrong. It frustrates her no end that the one thing she’d been striving for, the _missing link_ in her life since she’d accepted the life of a sorceress, wasn’t missing. She still felt hollow.

But it wasn’t about her womb, not really.

Who was she?

She had choices she could now make, sure, but nothing had fundamentally changed about _her –_ Yennefer the consciousness, Yennefer _the person_ , not the body.

She felt blurred around the edges.

A wriggly, writhing, sensation living in her throat.

Like a boat adrift she quits her quiet, her still, her _empty,_ house in Vengerberg.

*

She runs into Geralt’s bard, Jaskier, in a tavern on her way south and enjoys the look of absolute terrified shock on his face as he realises who’s just crashed his performance.

“Well done,” she compliments him afterwards when he’s joined her at the bar.

He does an, overly dramatic, double take, “That isn’t you, is it Dudu? Because if so, it’s not funny!”

“I assure I know who I am,” then, “Who’s Dudu?”

“A friend of mine, but that’s besides – ensnared any other knights to do one’s bidding?” he’s looking a little ragged around the edges, leaner, he’s grown out his hair and a moustache has sprouted on his upper lip.

“Not lately. Destroyed any marriages?”

“I - excuse you! – I never destroy! I only create,” he punctuated his exclamation with a discordant twang of his lute strings that had him scowling at before starting to retune it. Temperamental instruments.

“Geralt with you?”

“No, I thought he was with you,” he says into his lute strings, humming under his breath. _A storm breaking on the horizon._

“We’re on a temporary pause.”

“Sounded pretty final to me,” he ‘la’s’ quietly, absently; _a red sky at dawn, is giving a warning …_

“I realised a few things – why am I telling you this?” They were hardly friends, she tolerated him, he tolerated her.

“People don’t pay attention to the bard, we’re furniture. You’d be fascinated by what people say around musicians…” and, no doubt, so would Dijkstra of the Redanian Secret Service, Yennefer mused into her apple juice.

“When you see Geralt, tell him to write to me,” she asked him.

“I doubt I will see him,” yes, she had heard that tiff, the entire mountain had, “but I will, don’t worry.”

“Goodnight,” she bid him as civilly as she could.

He nodded, rose, and bowed sarcastically low before her, then started up a bawdy rhyme she’d heard far too many times before.

She rolled her eyes and ascended the stairs to her room.

*

The sun beats down on her raven hair, scorching against her neck.

Slave labour.

She’s glad this in not part of her legacy. (Though perhaps it is, she after all failed Nilfgaard as much as she ended up failing Aedirn.)

Now that her one goal, her driving force, her pet project, her ‘little’ hobby, has been completed other worries, anxieties seemed to bloom from the garden of opportunity. Once neglected, her attention can now be turned upon other avenues.

Liker her _actual_ legacy in the world.

So, she came to see for herself, the pitiful – glorious, some would say – state of Nilfgaard.

As she sees Istredd she lets the though flicker through her mind about what would have happened if she hadn’t ascended, joined Istredd in his life od academia and pottery.

It’s a silly little dream. A bright musing under an even brighter sun.

It’s good to see him again. She remembers how tenderly he’d held her. She remembers how he’s also jeopardised her future, the sneers she’d endured once her elven heritage had been announced.

They’d been so young, mad to believe any of that – the politics of the brotherhood – would make them any happier.

He isn’t what she wants and he’s right, she’s taken him for granted a little.

She could, theoretically, make love to him for old time’s sake – reminiscing when the thrill of people watching them had been new and exciting.

It’d be nice and she’s got enough contraceptive potion for them to make a weekend of it.

But then Vilgefortz reveals himself and she’s diverted from pleasure onto business.

Towards a cause.

*

Standing high, above the scared army in Sodden, she feels _it._ A swelling bubble of emotion trapped in her throat, threatening to warble out if she doesn’t scream. She’s been bound so long, shackled. And now…

… she unbottles her chaos.

Death. Destruction. Red. Orange. The sheer heat envelopes her – embraces the entire battlefield.

Flames lick at her feet, her dress catches fire, her hair ablaze. The soldiers melt then descend to ash, whirling like a perverted snowstorm caught up in Yennefer’s tornado of chaos. The trees disappear as they die for her, their life becoming her fuel.

Never play with fire, she’d been taught as a child. She seizes her chaos and forces it to still.

It bursts, the last of her chaos crashing over the burnt, flattened, landscape.

Cool hands pulled her from the remnants of the forest. Covered in ash and charcoal she feels clean. She knows who she is. She knows where she stands. She stands for herself. She stands for her friends. For choice against tyranny.

The greatest thing a flower can do is _live._

*

She finds Cirilla in the Temple of Melitele Geralt had deposited her in. The girl scowls at her, grumbles as she obeys Yennefer’s instructions, draws her patterned pictures. Sighs and longs to be swinging a sword as Yennefer teaches her about points of power.

Yennefer cajoles her, her tidies her apparel, focuses her on her studies. It’s all worth it for Ciri’s _spark_ of elation as she realises they’ve been doing magic all along, that she isn’t wasting time.

Joy. Pride. Exasperation. Mirth (she’ll never forget the exploded chicken coop, nor the surprised look on Cirilla’s face).

When Yennefer first learned of Geralt’s child surprise she’d been jealous. Angry too. Who was he to lecture her about motherhood when he abandoned his own child? But then, she relented - bitterly, privately - the Path is harsh.

The mutagens are excruciating.

Their life is not for a child.

It’s a kindness. A conflict within her. She wants a child - to love and to bring up in the life she never had - but what kind of life would it really be?

Moving from town to town to avoid the brotherhood? Chaos and potions? Or the quiet life of solemn work and warm beds and filling food?

She doesn’t know.

That path had been blocked from her, caved in, walled up, for so long she’d thought it untouchable.

Yennefer is very good at knocking down walls, a determinator. She had never given up, shed’ wanted to see beyond the prison she’d been trapped in.

In those moments of introspection, she often thought of her father. Not the shitstain – bloodstain on the clay floor - who’d sold her for a pittance but the one who’d died in the great cleansing.

Would he have done better? Would she have been pushed aside more or less, she wonders? A misaligned jaw and a crooked spine, would he have loved her even so?

Or had he considered his leaving a blessing, as Geralt had thought his absence a was? Or had he taken one look at her and run?

She’d never know.

She had learned elder, at Aretuza, for the pitiful spells they had he learn. She wanted to feel something, a closeness. But you could not manufacture an emotion never there.

No paternal pride, nothing.

She had clung, desperately, to each half smile Tissaia gifted her. The memory of her mother’s hugs – few, fleeting, and far between – had her wracking with silent sobs she tried to supress in the gloaming hours. (Why wasn’t she enough?)

The first time Ciri calls her ‘Mama’ she damn near bursts into tears, holding the girl close as she hurts, as she confronts her pain.

And lives through it.

Sitting in the dying sunlight in the temple grounds, Yennefer looks over to where Ciri is practicing pirouettes on the wall, a stick in place of her sword.

She touches lightly to the flower crown perched upon her head.

Life. Life is good.

For Ciri she _would_ be enough. A teacher. Someone Ciri could rely on for support and guidance. Someone she could turn to.

A mother.

The world was not safe, not for Ciri, but Yennefer would rip through chaos itself to keep _her_ daughter safe. Her daughter would never have to worry about an empty stomach. Assassins in the night would rue the day they took such a contract whilst Yennefer was there. Soon Ciri will be able to defend herself adequately, with both Witcher sword and chaos, until then Yennefer vowed she’s be standing at Ciri’s shoulder.

Of course the girl would bristle, protest as dramatically that she could survive alone, and she could, she’d proved that, but there was a difference between have to and could.

Yennfer _had to_. Ciri could.

Together they climbed the trees in the countryside around the temple. They caught frogs and just let them go. Picked flowers for frivolity. Danced as light as the clouds along the river bank.

Every smile Ciri gave her, every scowl, every sigh, every shake of the blond mop she called hair, Yennefer hoarded. Of course Ciri wanted revenge upon Nilfgaard, she had proper feeling, but it hadn’t consumed her. She had sadness, grief. But she had no hollow. No desperate, single, fixation.

She existed, content with herself.

She rebelled against Yennefer, _she was to be a Witcher, she didn’t want to go to Aretuza,_ but her spark was still there, she agreed willingly if grudgingly. They’d set off soon.

Ciri knew who she was and cared not with who she was supposed to be. She was a whole, if weathered, flower.

She had not _broken_ broken. She’d heal.

And for that Yennefer smiled again, the sunlight warming her heart.

*

The terror she’d felt when she realised Cirilla had gone was only reassured by the sure found knowledge of where she’d run to.

Of all the people to be in the area, the _one_ man she was avoiding.

Guilt. She had said things she hadn’t meant, with unfeeling he didn’t deserve.

She reunited with Geralt upon that windy night, after a pitch black dash after her charge.

Hearing Ciri get out of bed and join Jaskier under the apple tree, she took Geralt to one side. A mountain of aggression sits awkwardly between them.

“I’m sorry. I should have realised that you had as much choice in becoming a sorceress as I did a Witcher. My words were thoughtless, and I ask your forgiveness,” His face is pulled into a grimace of anguish. “I was wrong to doubt you. Ciri thinks the world of you-” he struggles, “Clearly I was wrong about your suitability for motherhood.”

Yennefer adjusts her necklace. His words had hurt her. He’d been, in a small way, confirming her own doubts in his vitriol.

They stand in silence for a moment. He’s always so sincere with her. Earnest. They mirror each other. She is beautiful, but so very _volatile, vindictive,_ on the inside. He is monstrous, his eyes and teeth inhuman, his hair and skin unnaturally pale, but his heart is so kind.

She understands him.

“You saved my life,” she spits at him, gesturing with wide arms, “I didn’t want you to. I would have been perfectly fine on my own. I succeeded Geralt, I found my cure. I have complete control over my body and my actions, except where _you_ are concerned! That fucking wish! I just want- I want,” _to be free_ , she almost says in anger, “I want to walk my own path, Geralt. Why..!”

Why does _she_ love him? Why does her heart tumble fondly at his smile?

 _Why_ had he saved her?

He understands her.

He’s thinking his loud thoughts again even as he bows his head, he loves her so much, even as she rages at him. She does not deserve it.

“I fell for you. No djinn could make that happen, only facilitate the circumstances,” she’s never admitted that, only marvelled that he would choose such a wish, “and clearly Ciri misses you.”

They’ve reached an impasse, a starting block from which to continue to build their relationship.

She can hear, vaguely, Jaskier and Ciri arguing – spying – from under the apple tree.

The rising sun dappled light upon the scrubland of Hirundum, their exhausted daughter slumbered against the apple tree.

Quietly she sits down upon the damp grass. Geralt sits beside her.

It won’t be easy. There’s a conclave of sorcerers to be held soon, the war with Nilfgaard looms like the poised dagger above all hopes and dreams.

They have a uniting goal now.

Geralt straying from his path for Ciri.

And Yennefer has her purpose, one she’d searched for along a smoke obscured road, persevering as she hit dead end after dead end. The hollow is gone now, replaced by a burning fire in the pit of her stomach.

It wasn’t easy for her to find. She’d built up so many defences. Protected her heart with a case of iron. Hers didn’t bleed like the do-gooders of the continent, but it had healed.

It burned for all those pressed down, pushed aside. It burned for herself, her _happiness_ over her doubts. It burnt for her friends. Her _family._

Who would _dare_ hurt what was hers?

 _She_ chose _them._

She knows where she stands.

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT 25/12/20:(Now that we are no longer anon:)
> 
> Please comment and kudos!!!
> 
> Find me on tumblr @whatkindofnameisvolta


End file.
